The World In The Bottle
by LithiumDoll
Summary: When he’d said life was green and seethrough, Methos had to admit he hadn’t expected to be provided with evidence supporting his theory.


Note: Sequel to **All Fall Down**, I recommend you read that first but this can probably be read stand alone.  
The original fic mucked around fairly horrifically with timeline and events and this one continues the crime – sorry. It can probably be considered an AU at this point, diverging before the 5th season.

* * *

When he'd said life was green and see-through, Methos had to admit he hadn't expected to be provided with evidence supporting his theory. It had taken MacLeod some time – it had to be nearly a year now - and almost certainly Joe's help in procuring his address, but sitting on his coffee table was a world in a bottle.

Like its ship counterpart, the world was far too big to squeeze through the bottle neck and it sat on a small wooden mount. With ships he was aware there was a trick with thread and the mast but the world was quite spherical and, as far as he could tell, it was porcelain. With modern manufacturing methods it was by no means impossible to create but this looked like it pre-dated the cheats.

There had been no note, just the return address of the gym in Seacouver - he supposed that was much the same as a note.

And a world. In a bottle.

Uncomfortably aware a metaphor was waiting to spring, he reached out and tapped the glass with his fingernail. It made a dull ringing sound, not high and clean but muted like a beer bottle. Plink.

"Matthew?"

He turned and a smile came of its own accord. "Did I wake you?"

Gillian stood framed by the doorway to the bedroom, dark hair mussed, blinking in the thin morning light streaming across her face. She began to return his smile before she remembered herself and an austere scowl settled over thinly aristocratic features.

"No - that was the alarm but don't worry, I'll find something to blame you for."

She probably would, she was one of the more creatively unreasonable women he'd ever had the pleasure to know. Methos hated her sometimes and for that alone, Matthew suspected, he loved her.

The footsteps were soft as she padded over the floor boards; long hair brushed his shoulder as she leant over the back of the couch.

"Are you still staring at that thing?" Her voice was still sleep-fogged but her tone was acid sharp.

"It's not a '_thing_', it's a world. In a bottle."

"I know what it is; it's been on the bloody coffee table for a month. Put it somewhere, will you? The bin for preference." The presence at his shoulder withdrew as Gillian stalked, stalked was definitely the word, towards the kitchenette.

He called after her. "Have I told you what a delight you are in the mornings?"

"No."

"I can't imagine why." He blew a mocking kiss and received a sloppy two-fingered salute in return before she turned to begin making a pot of coffee. The air began to fill with the warmly bitter scent of her favoured blend, a vile concoction he could only liken to some kind of mutant Turkish brew.

He cast around for something to say, considering and discounting either of their jobs, the latest football scores, his advanced age and whomever she'd been having an affair with lately. Finally he settled on the obvious. "You're wearing my shirt."

"Most men find that attractive."

"I would have thought you'd prefer me finding you attractive, I have no particular feelings about my shirt."

"Then you won't mind me wearing it, will you?" Mug in hand she settled beside him on the couch, legs curled under her and – he was quite sure - a calculated length of her thigh appearing as the silk slid up her skin.

As she'd made the effort he took a moment to admire the pose. "Well, if you put it like that …"

Gillian sipped her coffee. "So when do you leave?"

"An hour or so, I want to drop into the bookstore on the way in."

"Not for work, Matthew. _Honestly._ For Seacouver."

That drew his eyes from their appreciation of her thigh to the amused glint in her eyes. Grey eyes that never had even a fleck of blue or green. "What makes you think I'm going?"

"Aside from the terrible ravages of intelligence? Credit me with knowing you a little, at least."

He leaned closer, abandoning his study of the bottled world entirely and throwing himself into her game. "Would you miss me?"

The leather of the couch creaked as she leaned over and deposited her mug on the table and then languidly returned to her previous position. The shirt slipped a little more, quite by accident naturally. "I'm sure I'd pine, darling."

"And I'm sure Simon would console you."

Only indifference joined the amusement. "He'll probably try. I suppose I might let him for a dinner or two."

"You're a cruel woman."

"You know what they say, 'you have to be cruel to be utterly heartless'."

"I'm almost certain they don't, you know."

"You haven't answered my question." Her fingers began to trail up his arm but he ignored them for the moment, she'd be disappointed if he gave in too quickly.

"You noticed. I'm touched."

"I quite agree." The fingers stopped to pat his arm kindly and then resumed their climb.

"I thought next week, after the dinner party."

"I should go before it if I were you. Marjorie and Paul are back together again, there'll be nothing worth talking about at all."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Only constantly." Her fingers walked the rest of their way up his arm, claimed his shoulder and drew him down. The bookshop could probably wait.

-o-

Even standing in the pouring rain under the dubious cover of the bus shelter, surrounded by grey Pimlico austerity and kamikaze pigeons, Matthew couldn't say he hated London. He couldn't say he hated anything, really - except Gillian, of course - but he couldn't say he had any affection for the city either. Methos had no feelings about it at all.

Adam, he suspected, would have found the place quite enjoyable in its current incarnation but he'd never have bothered to meet new people. He'd certainly never have been able to give Gillian the precise mix of attention and neglect she required; he probably wouldn't have been able to stay in the same room as her for more than ten minutes.

It didn't matter. Adam had disappeared in France, along with the key to a gym he'd never made it to.

He paused in his thoughts and waited for a twinge of regret but nothing more than mild irritation at the lateness of the bus was forthcoming. It didn't surprise him particularly - Matthew was Gillian's equal, all cold show and fashionably affected apathy, leaving ever-fading footprints on the bleeding edge of high society.

Adam would have laughed himself sick at Matthew and gone back to his music and books.

That difference had been the point, at the time, but now he was starting to recognise the sort of confusion in his mental state that was uniquely found when MacLeod was in any way involved. Next time he dabbled in Psychiatry, he'd have to remember to name a neurosis after the Scot. Unless Burns had gotten there first, of course, that was always a possibility.

At last the number 51 deigned to arrive and he let himself be carried aboard amid the swarm, handed over his fare and didn't even attempt to claim a seat. Hanging onto the overhead hand rail he watched the streets passing by through the grimy window to his side.

It hadn't been so long that Adam couldn't resurface and he was fairly sure Joe would have alerted him if the Watchers had been aware of his Immortal status. There were any number of excuses he could come up with that probably wouldn't earn him more than a slap on the wrist from the organisation and then he could go back to his research for at least another couple of years before time ensured he had to move on.

There was Gillian to consider, of course. Gillian and the three or four hours she'd miss him. He'd met her in the London tea gardens of the eighteenth century, or women so like her he might as well have - carving out a place amongst their peers with wit and beauty and a ruthlessness that had been quite chilling to witness.

When he'd _actually_ met her, ironically in a coffee shop, the rush of nostalgic admiration for those painted harpies had overridden his good sense but he couldn't say he regretted it.

He might regret staying, though.


End file.
